


they find it all, a different story

by harlequindreaming



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Real Madrid CF, Unrequited Love, implied Iker Casillas/Sergio Ramos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequindreaming/pseuds/harlequindreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Cristiano is different from what James expected. Well, different and yet not. He's heard all the stories, of course, of arrogant Cristiano, selfish Cristiano, cocky and self-centered and better-than-you Cristiano. He's idolized him for a while now -- Cris's career is everything James wishes his would be -- but it's difficult not to let his expectations be clouded. He's still young, after all; how is he to know?</i> </p><p>crismes/seriker one-shot</p>
            </blockquote>





	they find it all, a different story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pepsicokes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepsicokes/gifts).



> written while listening to [ceremony by new order](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pr6SxJb-Dw), and [the melody of a fallen tree by windsor for the derby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2Jr0Yrox-M), both from the soundtrack of marie antoinette. title taken from the former.
> 
> disclaimer: as this is a work of fiction, some of my headcanons for these players have slipped in. tbh this fic just got really out of hand it was just supposed to be a little drabble to build on something i sent coco over facebook chat but well. i have never been good at containing my fics to "just drabbles". also the timeline is fuzzy in my head so let's just assume stuff here is correct. i tried to fact check as much as possible, but if ever we'll just write this off as a UA (universe alternation), yeah? yeah.

(unrequited love prompt)

* * *

 

 

Ever since childhood, ever since he'd discovered he was a little more than halfway decent with a ball at his feet, James Rodriguez had had his heart set on playing in white -- Madrid white, the  _Los Blancos,_ the White Kings of Madrid. Surely there was no team better than they who had won so many European titles, who boasted the best and biggest names of football. He watches, at 17, still at Banfield in Argentina, as Real Madrid break records to sign Cristiano Ronaldo from Manchester United. He watches as the world's best club welcomes the world's best footballer to its halls.

At 23, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. The clicks of photographers' cameras and the roar of the crowd bleed through the walls. The Santiago Bernabeu is waiting for him.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Cristiano is different from what James expected. Well, different and yet not. He's heard all the stories, of course, of arrogant Cristiano, selfish Cristiano, cocky and self-centered and better-than-you Cristiano. He's idolized him for a while now -- Cris's career is everything James wishes his would be -- but it's difficult not to let his expectations be clouded. He's still young, after all; how is he to know?

The first time James meets Cristiano, they aren't teammates. Jorge Mendes, super-agent extraordinaire, is the one who brokers the first introduction. James is starstruck, something Cris takes in stride, and to the young Colombian's amazement a rapport is established. Ronaldo. He's actually getting along with  _Cristiano Ronaldo._

When Cris lifts Salome into his arms, cooing lightly at the little girl, James feels like he might explode. He just hopes he isn't grinning too manically. 

 

 

The first time he crosses paths with Cristiano as a teammate isn't until late in the pre-season. Coming off the World Cup, everyone's tired, and even if Colombia's quarterfinal exit (something James doesn't  _quite_ like remembering) meant he'd gotten off earlier than some, it's a while before he gets back on the pitch. He doesn't join the preseason tour, stuck back at the Valdebebas in Madrid while the team battles for the Guinness ICC. Cristiano isn't even there when he gets to train with the team for the first time, still nursing leftover injuries and training apart.

The first time he crosses paths with Cristiano, it's in the locker room. He's early to training, but he wants to put in some time working on his free kicks. He wants to be able to curl them up and over the wall, give his teammates an edge in set pieces. But when he enters the lockers at the Valdebebas, he's surprised to hear someone shuffling around already. He peeks in, and there he is.

Cristiano is halfway in changing his shirt, bag on the bench nearby. James stands, frozen at the door, gaze fixated on -- well, everything. The body that speaks of so much power, containing a world's worth of on-pitch talent. A small scar near the hip, barely visible in the half-open lights. The signature CR7 boots, a second pair tucked into the bag. Those warm brown eyes, confused but amused and -- and shit.

"Seen enough?" Cristiano quips, eyebrows going up as his shirt goes down. James is mortified, wants to duck out of the room. But Cristiano actually laughs as he shoves the rest of his things in his bag and picks up a ball from his locker.

"Come on, then," he says with a grin, walking to where James is still frozen in embarrassment. "Why don't we go practice some free kicks?"

He's well past James, footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, before James comes to his senses and moves. This... is not what he was expecting. At all.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

They practice all morning, and Cristiano never once acts like James is out of place here, like James coming in early to do free kicks is a normal occurrence. Under Cristiano's guidance, James manages to bend a kick to slot in just inside the near post. He actually whoops before recollecting himself, nervous that Cristiano will finally realize he's been practicing with a  _kid._ But he turns and Cristiano's grinning, one hand shading his eyes as he squints to where the ball had gone in.

"Good shot," he says, turning his smile to James. "A little more height and you could put that over the wall."

A flush creeps into James' cheeks and he ducks his head, eyes flicking up to the ball buried in the netting. "Thanks," he says, and feels his heart is about to burst.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

And so it goes. Cristiano doesn't return to normal training yet, but he's always early, which means James -- after a first few days of hesitancy, uncertainty of whether it would be allowed again -- can always find him at the lockers of the Valdebebas. Sometimes James arrives and Cristiano is already on the field, not doing anything strenuous, just kicking the ball around. James doesn't ask, because he understands; there's a comfort, a sense of certainty when he has the ball at his feet, because football is the one constant for him, football grounds him. James understands, because he feels the same.

They practice together. James' free kicks improve, slowly, but the progress is there. Cristiano puts him in the goal once, half in jest, asks him to save penalties. He gets none of them, of course, and he sniffs resentfully as he climbs to his feet after his diving attempt to block that last one. He's just gotten up to one knee when a hand enters his vision.

"Iker would be horrified," Cristiano laughs.

James retaliates by shoving him, but Cristiano just laughs again and picks the ball out of the netting.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

"Why do you do this?" James asks one morning, having finally plucked up the courage. Cristiano has been absentmindedly doing some stepovers to the side while James shoots penalties. It's a lazy morning in Madrid; even the sky feels slow and tired. He glances over to where Cristiano is juggling the ball, before heading over to collect the ball he'd just put through.

"Do what?" Cristiano asks, flicking the ball up to balance on his forehead. James thinks his expression of concentration -- on a ball right over his eyes, no less -- looks ridiculous and endearing.

"This." He gestures at the ball tucked under his arm, the pitch, Cristiano.

"Practice early?" Cristiano replies cheekily, dropping the ball to his hands.

James huffs in frustration and bends down to pick up a second ball. "Help me," he elaborates, focused on the ball. When he looks up, Cristiano is eyeing him with half a smirk.

His hackles rise, and he's about to tell Cristiano  _never mind, then,_ when the man speaks.

"Giggs and Scholes did the same for me," he says, shrugging, letting the ball fall back down to the ground. "When I came to United. It helped me to... settle in, I think." He rolls the ball around a bit, runs a hand through his hair. "I still remember how it felt, young boy, big club. I figured it wouldn't hurt."

James looks at Cristiano, an unexpected warmth unfurling in his gut, looks at Cristiano's self-deprecating grin and little shrug and thinks how everyone is so very wrong about this man.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

It's hard not to be drawn to him after that. It's hard not to be drawn to Cristiano, period, really; the man is charisma personified, with his pretty-boy looks and good humor. And James is pulled to him like a moth to flame, watching. He hadn't expected Cristiano to remember him too well -- a few exchanges on social media do not a friendship make, exactly -- but he does, he remembers the precocious young boy from AS Monaco who'd been such a big fan of Real Madrid. But as the team trickles back in, as new faces -- for him, at least; for everyone else, they're all familiar -- come in, James finds Cristiano spending less time around Madrid's new boy. He already knows Cristiano is on good terms with the Spaniards (and the captain, Casillas, especially) and his fellow Portuguese (Pepe still frightens James, if he's honest). Then Marcelo comes back to regular training and it's clear that the small, happy Brazilian is everyone's favorite. And Di Maria -- when Di Maria comes back, James sees how Cristiano's face just lights up as he pulls the Argentine into a smothering hug.

All those assists last season. How Di Maria always seemed to unerringly pick Cristiano out on the pitch. As if they'd played together all their lives.

James catches up to Cristiano during the start-up run and Cristiano offers him a friendly smile. Marcelo whoops and cuffs him on the back of the head, laughing. Pepe grins (like a shark) down at him. Coentrao ruffles his hair. But James has eyes only for Cristiano, Cristiano, Cristiano.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

It's just a crush, is what he tells himself. A silly, schoolboy crush.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

His first official match for Madrid is against Sevilla, the Super Cup. It's a bit of a Mickey Mouse trophy, really, but he wants to do well, wants to justify his exorbitant price tag (and he can't help it, he looks himself up on Google sometimes, just to see what they say). He knows the weight of the shirt Madrid will give him, the expectations levied on the almost-holy No.10. He's determined to live up to it.

They're in Cardiff and being surrounded by so much English is unfamiliar, but it's his  _first official match_ and that has his nerves singing. He knows most eyes will be on the homecoming player, Gareth Bale, but they're Real Madrid. The spotlight is always on them, on all of them. 

When he pulls on that white shirt, when he lines up in the tunnel, James has to remind himself again and again that it isn't a dream. The roar of the crowd seems tinny and faded to his ears as for a moment, he lets himself get lost in this reality. He's at Real Madrid now, the crowned crest proud over his heart. This is his team.

And then the match kicks off and there's nothing to think about but the ball, where it moves, who has it. James throws himself into the game, the rhythm of running and intercepting and running some more. He feels all lit up, like a sparkler someone's set off, and everyone in a white shirt is shining along with him. This is how it feels to play for Real Madrid. This is how it feels to be a part of the White Kings.

He doesn't find Cristiano, no, but he does sense him two moves ahead and so he squares the middleman -- sends the ball over to Bale, who slots it through for Cristiano to score. The stadium erupts and Cristiano goes running off and James -- it's like anchor and ship. He hurtles right after him, throws his arms around Cristiano for a hug. And Cristiano is laughing in his ear, the team is cheering. 1-0.

The build-up to the next goal doesn't involve him, but he gets pulled toward Cristiano again anyway, and this time -- this time Cristiano holds a hand out, tugs James along as he races down the pitch, yanks the young boy into his arms. James savors the feeling before the rest of the team pile in, yelling in happiness. Under them all though, is James still in Cristiano's arms.

They win, and the winners' medal gleams on his chest as what James hopes is the first of his many, many accolades at Real Madrid. But better than that is the twinkle in Cristiano's eyes as he jokes in the locker room, as he cuffs Gareth Bale in a headlock, as he poses for photos with Casillas and Marcelo and Pepe. 

And then Cristiano poses with him, too, and his proximity is more intoxicating than any victory high.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

_It's just a school boy crush, just a crush, just a crush._

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

It's downhill from there, however. They lose to Fiorentina, no matter that James tries his best coming off the bench. They lose to Atletico Madrid on aggregate for the Supercopa, and James is so -- so  _frustrated,_ so angry, he could cry. They stand on the pitch as Atletico celebrate and the disappointment on each team member's face is evident, despite their efforts to keep brave faces. And James is thinking,  _if I'd taken that shot, if I hadn't lost that ball, if I hadn't, if, if, if._ He looks at his captain, Casillas, chin up in defiance of his devastation. He looks at Cristiano, bitter disappointment writ in his eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat.

He hasn't seen Cristiano before practice much; training is exhausting and he can't always force himself to wake up that much earlier, move that much sooner. He wants to, he wants to improve and get better but mostly he wants Cristiano to himself. Before the team shows up, before other people take his attention away.

It's selfish. But it's what he wants.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

In the middle of the Supercopa hits the news of Angel Di Maria's transfer. The team is stunned, Ancelotti is frustrated, but Cristiano -- the man is  _livid._ He goes to Perez himself to protest, asks not to sell the Argentine, but despite the plea from the man who is arguably Madrid's biggest star, Di Maria leaves. And Cristiano's resentment shows in little flashes at training, all the more after Di Maria comes to say goodbye. James hasn't really played with Di Maria, so as a teammate his grief is hesitant. As a fan, however, he's devastated. No Madridista will be quick to forget the night in Lisbon, and what that zigzag run down the flank meant for the team.

(And a small part of James wonders if the papers are to be believed, if it is indeed his signing that pushed Di Maria to the fringes and made him choose to leave. It's not something he wants; he'd never intended to disrupt the balance by arriving. He wants to speak up and say _no, keep him, let me learn from him_. But the papers get signed and James sees the disappointment on everyone's faces. He wonders if this is his fault.)

It's a small consolation that Di Maria is heading for Cristiano's former team. But then Xabi Alonso leaves, and for  _Bayern Munich,_ and the team is left reeling first (they'd heard it from the  _media,_ of all places, not even from Xabi himself) then seething after. James makes a post to be polite, as does Toni Kroos, but nobody else from the team offers words of luck and thanks. Arbeloa, in particular, seems shaken.

The team has lost two vital midfielders, one of them a vital defensive pivot. They're all shaken.

Cristiano keeps a professional face during team training, but James finds him one morning already on the Valdebebas pitch, punting ball after ball into the back of the net.

"Does that one have Perez' face on it?" he asks, trying to lighten the mood a little. It's not the apology he really wants to give ( _I'm sorry, I didn't think I'd make Di Maria leave by coming here, I'll try to be a good replacement_ ) but he's not quite sure how to say it. Besides, Cristiano looks like he could have one of those little cartoon storm clouds over his head. The man turns around and the anger gets reined in when he sees who's joined him.

"Yes," he huffs, half-smiling. "And so did the last one, and the one before that. And so does this." And with that, he slams another one in. James watches in awe at the force with which it sails into the goal.

"I don't think even Casillas could have saved that," is what comes out of his mouth, and Cristiano turns to look at him, a little bemused. James colors slightly, but plays it off and shrugs.

Cristiano looks back to the goal, a corner of his mouth twitching up. "You definitely couldn't."

The look of affront makes its way to James' face before he can stop it, and for the first time in a while Cristiano breaks out into a laugh. It's hard enough that he has to sit down, shoulders shaking and head thrown back. James can't stay annoyed and breaks into a grin, watching the sunlight dapple that beautiful face.

"Do you have to be good at  _everything?_ " Cristiano asks incredulously, when his laughter is subsided. There's still a smile on his face, however, as he raises his eyebrows at James expectantly.

James shrugs again. "I play for Real Madrid," he says simply, and Cristiano's smile softens.

"That you do," he says as he gets up and dusts himself off. Then he tips his head in the direction of the goal with a smirk. "Shall we give it a go, then?"

James grimaces. "Maybe... not today," he mutters, and Cristiano laughs again.

 

 

He wanted to, though. James has realized by now there's little he wouldn't do to put a smile on Cristiano's face.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Ramos, surprisingly, is the first person to make a quip about it. James gets along well enough with the co-captain, who's still more approachable than Casillas (James can't help the intimidation, it's  _San Iker_ ). They're stretching and Cris (when had the man become  _Cris_ in his mind, James wonders) has partnered up with Bale. James feels the twinge of disappointment, but then Sergio comes along and he smothers it, smiling hesitantly at Sergio. He offers to do the stretching first but Ramos waves him away, which means James finds himself on his back with Sergio stretching his right leg. A few yards over, Bale is saying something that makes Cris laugh, makes Cris twist his foot out of Bale's grip and unsuccessfully try and kick at Bale. James watches Cris's face light up, and doesn't even notice Ramos has stopped stretching and is just eyeing him with a smirk until the man pinches his ankle.

"Ow!" James snaps back to attention in surprise, frown drawing down the corners of his mouth. Ramos looks unremorseful, however, and even appears to be holding back a laugh. James' face scrunches up in a pout. "What?"

"Two time Euro Champion, 2010 Word Champion, your _co-captain,_ and you still make goo-goo eyes at pretty-boy Ronaldo," Ramos replies, breaking into laughter. "You'd think being his teammate would make you  _less_ starstruck, but no. You're practically  _besotted._ "

James feels the flush creep up to his cheeks. He considers twisting out of Ramos' grip, asking to switch partners, but Ramos just gives him a good-natured grin as he sets down James' foot.

"It's fine, I get it," he goes on, moving to the other leg and lifting it to stretch. "It's  _Cristiano Ronaldo_ we're talking about here, after all. You'd have been a youth player when he hit the heights at Manchester United, right? Should have seen me when I arrived and Raul was my captain. I nearly peed myself when I first met him." Ramos chuckles. James relaxes, smiling a little ruefully.

"He's my favorite player," he says honestly, glancing over again at where Bale and Ronaldo are in conversation. 

"Yeah, and water is wet," Ramos quips, rolling his eyes, then grinning cheekily when James frowns up at him. They finish the rest of the stretches amiably, if quietly, and by the time they're set to move onto hurdles James is back to watching Cris. 

 

 

"Just a favorite player, huh?" Ramos asks from behind him, a small knowing smile on his face. Before James can react -- before he even realizes Ramos has spoken, even -- the man has walked off.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

_It's just a schoolboy crush, just a crush, just a -- just --_

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

La Liga kicks off to a good start. Madrid wins 2-0 over Cordoba and James feels like he's flying. It's not  _quite_ a dominant showing from the team, but the performance is solid and Cris gets another goal. It comes after James is subbed off, so there's no opportunity to chase after Cris, see that ecstatic expression turned to him as Cris pulls him into a hug. Still, it's enough to watch Cris work his magic on the field again. Every touch on the ball is inspired, at least in James' eyes.

Maybe they'll be okay without their midfield stalwarts. They're still a strong team, a formidable one. They can dust themselves off.

Except. Except the cracks start to show. Madrid gains an early lead against Sociedad but loses it -- no, more than that, crashes completely. Cris isn't there, not even on the bench, and James is just so fucking  _frustrated_ because he's never realized how instinctively he looks for Cris's presence on the pitch, orients himself around that iconic No.7, passes the ball forward for Cris to take. But he's not there,  _he's not there,_ and James can feel it so keenly it throws his whole game off. He can't get any shots, keeps firing wide, keeps getting dispossessed and it builds and builds, until he feels he might deck the next Sociedad player who tackles him to the ground. Sociedad closes the deficit, then equalizes, then gains and nothing James does can prevent it. When the final whistle blows, he sinks down to the ground, abjectly wishing it would swallow him up.

2-4. To Real Sociedad.

Ramos is the one who hauls James to his feet, gives him a shove toward the locker rooms. James feels numb as he puts one foot in front of the other. The Anoeta feels like his own personal hell at the moment, the cheers of the home crowd rubbing salt into open wounds.

An arm throws itself around his shoulders, startling James out of his thoughts. Ramos has come up beside him. "It's one match," he says determinedly, face set. "Don't -- don't let it get to you."

James purses his lips and looks around at the rest of the Madridistas filing somberly into the tunnel, down to the lockers.  _It's one match,_ he thinks bitterly, and childishly kicks at the ground. If he'd just--

"Don't," Ramos interrupts, looking down at James seriously. James blinks back up, bemused. "Don't -- you're blaming yourself, aren't you.  _If I'd just scored,_ that sort of thing."

It's like a slap to the face and James looks away, cheeks flaming. But Ramos stops in the tunnel and pulls James around to face him. "Please, I've seen that look enough times on Iker's face. And Cris's.  _Stop,_ it's not going to get you anywhere." He shakes James' shoulders lightly. "The defense fell apart, we couldn't cover you. The midfield wasn't clicking. We didn't lose because -- I don't know, you didn't get that shot or whatever the hell it is you're thinking. We lost as a _team_." Ramos lets go of James with a rueful smile.

"Who are you and what have you done with my  _nene?_ " comes a wry voice from behind them, and James peers around Ramos to see Casillas looking at them, eyebrows raised, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. Ramos' cheeks turn a little pink and he ducks his head, running a hand through his hair. Casillas laughs quietly, shaking his head. "Good to see you're at least  _trying_ to be more responsible to the kids," he says, turning back to the locker rooms.

James feels a little stung by the  _kid_ remark, but turns back to Ramos. Except Ramos is still looking at the locker entrance, a faraway expression in his eyes. James shuffles his feet and clears his throat awkwardly. "Er -- Mr. Ramos? Sergio?"

Sergio snaps out of whatever trance he's in to look at James incredulously, before bursting out laughing. James is more affronted than confused, feeling a little awkward as he waits for Ramos to shut up.

Ramos finally swipes at his eyes, a grin still pulling at his lips. "Just Sergio will do, my little Colombian friend. Now come on. Let's go mope with the rest of the team."

 

 

James later decides that Ramos -- that  _Sergio_ is actually all right. He's a bit loud and his insistence to control the team music is a bit aggravating, but he's obviously passionate about defending and about Real Madrid. (Maybe a bit too much over defending, is the impression James gets when Marcelo gleefully informs him one morning about the sheer number of yellow cards Sergio has picked up over his time at Madrid.) And there's one more thing, a familiarity in Sergio that strikes James the next day in training, when the team comes together for the first time after the defeat.

He looks at Sergio, who's watching Casillas train with seemingly redoubled intensity, a look of intense concentration darkening the captain's expression. James looks at Sergio who looks at Casillas, and wonders.

But then Cris shows up to join them for lunch, apologetic and sympathetic, just as disappointed as the rest of them, and James forgets all about Sergio and Iker. He lets Cris coddle him a bit, pull him in a one-armed hug and reassure James that these things happen. The bitter sting of defeat is almost erased then, but Cris moves to pull Marcelo in a headlock and ruffle his hair, and give Casillas a full hug, complete with a joking smack of lips on the cheek. Another sense of disappointment settles in James' gut as they make their way to the showers.

For James, Real Madrid and Cristiano Ronaldo are intertwined and inseperable; to play for his dream team is to play alongside his idol, and what he does for Madrid, he does for Cris. For Cristiano, James is a teammate and ally, but so are the rest of them. He is not bigger than the club, is still the new boy who hasn't quite earned his shirt.

 

(And James wonders about the last person to wear this number, Mesut Ozil, who'd broken a record for number of assists and given them all to Cristiano. Ozil, for whom the whole club had gone up in arms when it was announced he would leave. He's nothing like the quiet German, and James wonders if Cris looks at the number on the back of his shirt and thinks the wrong name is printed on top of it. He shouldn't wonder, James knows; he needs to stop making his career here at Madrid revolve around one man, superstar or no. But he can't help it. Madrid and the Bernabeu and the Valdebebas, the crest on his shirt, they're all tinged with Cris now.)

 

James sits with Isco and Illara for lunch, listens to their stories of playing for different Spanish youth teams. He laughs in the right places and asks the right questions and pretends he isn't listening to Cris try to stop Pepe from telling a story about how they got locked out of Cris's own house. He smiles when Isco asks and replies yes, he's settling in nicely in Madrid.

Cris doesn't look his way once.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

_It's not just a crush, it's not, it's not, it's maybe not._

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Ancelotti tells them they'll pick back up, they dropped three points but this derby against Atletico is the chance to snatch them back. More than that, although the coach doesn't say this, it's a chance to get revenge for the Supercopa. Diego Simeone won't be there, which gives them a slight advantage, and they'll be hosting them at home. The Bernabeu will have their backs.

James warms up with the rest of the team feeling hopeful, and more than that, raring to get onto the pitch. This is his chance to make up for Real Sociedad -- the team's chance, as a whole. Ancelotti had already told them that Barcelona had won their fixture, so nobody wants to drop any more points behind the  _blaugranas._ James looks at this match as his chance to get back at the critics, show them that he can step up to fill Di Maria's shoes somehow.

The whistle blows, the ball moves. James starts running.

 

 

Determination, it seems, is not enough.

 

 

In the locker room, everyone is silent and seething. 1-2, to Atletico Madrid. Another derby loss. James looks at Cris, who'd run and run and tried and  _tried,_ but whose only goal was from the penalty spot. He looks back at his own feet, still in their boots, and feels like a failure. He'd heard the press again, on his way back in ( _Di Maria, Xabi, Di Maria, Xabi_ ). He wonders if it frustrates Cris, if he'd looked to his left during the match, expecting the ball to come to him, but he'd found a different face ( ~~the wrong face~~ ).

James' hands curl into fists on his lap.

 _Next game,_ he tells himself fiercely, uncurling his fingers to start unlacing his boots.  _Next game._

 

 

Next game is the start of the Champions League. If Madrid wants to defend their title, they need to start with a win.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

They get it. It feels like flying again, how playing with Real Madrid should  _really_ feel, like his boots have wings and nothing can go wrong. James starts behind Cris, the number 7 jersey defiant before him, and vows: this game. This will be the game.

It's excellent.

They pass like second nature, connections thriving between each member. The ball goes forward again and again, always with intent, carrying the threat of yet another goal. Nacho starts the score, sending the ball ricocheting off one of Basel's own players and it's like the floodgates have been opened. The goals come pouring in, and with it a giddiness that James feels he could live off forever.

Bale. Ronaldo. And then his goal,his first Champions League goal, caught off a rebound. James watches it go in as a smile breaks out on his face and he's off running, shouting. He feels like he could score a hundred goals; like he could play ten more games yet.

And then Cris there and James throws himself into his arms and everything is perfect.

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

Sergio comes to him one morning during training while James is sitting down by the side of the pitch, waiting for his turn to play in six-a-side. He'd been discussing something to the side with Hierro, but Hierro's walked off and now Sergio's beside him, taking a seat on the grass and stretching. It's still something he's getting used to, being a Madridista, but he likes how the rest of the team is slowly getting comfortable around him, bringing him into the fold. Cris drifts toward him during training sometimes, still, and Isco and Illara are quick to welcome him as another one of the Madridista kids. Marcelo is fun, as always, even if he seems to be a package deal with Pepe (who still scares James). But it's in Sergio that James finds the most affinity (after Cris), enjoying his big laughs and bad jokes and large presence. James can see that, when Iker leaves, Sergio will make a good captain.

"Holding up?" Sergio asks him as he leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. James smiles as he watches his (new) teammates horse around the makeshift pitch.

"Mmm," he hums absently, tipping his head to one side. In the game, Cris dribbles around Pepe, whose bright idea then is to grab Cris by the back of his shirt and physically haul him away from the ball. Marcelo doubles over in laughter. Benzema is trying to look unamused and professional, but the corners of his mouth twitch.

Sergio looks at James and shakes his head. "Will you tell him?" he asks, shifting so his lower back is more comfortable.

James tears his eyes away from the match to look questioningly at Sergio, brows pulled together slightly. "Tell who? What?"

Sergio shrugs a little, nodding to where Cris is now kicking Pepe in the shin. James mulls this over. "For now? No." Sergio's eyebrows go up and James has to chuckle. "I don't want to bother him, and I don't want to start to expect anything. He has to focus on football first."

Sergio keeps looking at him with an unreadable expression, and James colors a little as he turns to look back at the team. "I mean, Cris is -- he's amazing, yeah, and gorgeous, and the things he does on the pitch are unreal. But that's what he needs to focus on -- I'd just distract him." James looks down at his shoes and huffs a resigned little laugh. "It's enough for me, being his teammate. It's enough, for now, that he sees me on the pitch."

Sergio studies James a moment longer -- so young, such bright talent -- then looks up to where Casillas is focused on following Bale's run, a furrow of concentration in his brow. He shakes his head with a little sigh. "Yeah, I think I can understand that."

James cracks a small smile. On field, Bale slams the ball goal-ward but Iker makes a spectacular jump to send it over the crossbar. Sergio claps and whoops, sitting up in excitement. James glances at Cris, who's shaking his head, the corners of his lips quirked up.

A whistle blows and sides are swapped. Benzema comes off for James, who joins Chicha - a new signing from United, and very eager to please - in the side without bibs. They mark their positions and wait for the signal to start.

James isn't Di Maria or Ozil, he knows. But he can be, he can damn well try, here on the pitch he can try his hardest to shine and show Cris --  _look at me. I'm here._

He slots a pass to Chicha, who springs onto the ball and taps it just under Casillas' diving save. Their side erupts in cheers.

 

 

These things, he can do. 

 

**xxxxxxxxxx**

 

James is early to training again two days later, the first time in a while. But after their rocky start to La Liga, he's determined to do whatever it takes to do well, get those three points. He enters the locker room to find a familiar bag on the bench, an extra pair of CR7 boots on the floor underneath.

 

 

On the pitch, Cris is practicing free kicks from the corners of the box, first right, then left. James watches as Cris steps back, weighs his run, then surges forward. His foot connects with the ball perfectly, sending it curling up and near the far corner. It's something James has seen Cris do many times, watching so many Real Madrid matches. James doesn't think he'll ever get tired of watching it, of marvelling at Cristiano's genius. 

He picks up one of the scattered balls and punts it ala-keeper, sending it down in front of Cris to catch his attention. The man startles and turns around to where James is standing, grinning, another ball at ready.

"Why don't we go practice some free kicks?" he asks cheekily, proffering the ball. Cris puts his hands on his hips and exhales a smile.

"You do realize you're going to have to prove yourself first before you can start taking them for Madrid," the man points out, clearly amused. James shrugs.

"You won't stay young forever," he replies, trotting forward, and Cris's eyes widen. He's about to retort when James steals the ball at his feet and dribbles it to goal.

 

 

Of course Cris steals it back, and of course James is still shaky on both defense and tackling, but Cris works him through it. They get an hour before the first teammate shows up (Bale) and by the official start of training, James is tired but happy.

He's not Di Maria. He's not Ozil. But if he works, if he works, if he makes it so he shines in their games, then Cris will see him. And after Cris does, James will still be there, still playing.

_It's enough that he sees me on the pitch._

It's enough, for now.

* * *

 


End file.
